


Come Undone

by Laeviss



Category: World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Shy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5963194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an encounter with Varian Wrynn sets Garrosh's nerves on edge, he finds himself trying to relieve the tension in a most unlikely place. (WotLK-era)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Undone

There was nothing like a meeting to get Garrosh riled up.

Especially an accidental one, with a certain orc-hating king, halted by the violet flash of shields before Garrosh got the chance to wipe the smirk from his face. But he had done his best to forget it. Three hours in a mug at the Filthy Animal and two fights with waiters had seemed as good an outlet as any. If Thrall’s gaze hadn’t haunted him from across the table, he might have even left his pent-up rage at the bar and finished this. But no. Thrall had sighed, and his uneasiness had grown. And as soon as the Warchief stepped away, he found himself down here.

The cellar air reeked of musk and old wine, but Garrosh hardly noticed. Nor did he pay much attention to who stood in front of him– he was just an elf, a mage, whose eye Garrosh had managed to catch, he didn’t even know his name– with his pants unzipped and his hand reaching for Garrosh’s head. 

He only cared about the energy churning and coiling in the pit of his chest. It could have been rage, or arousal, or a combination thereof, but all he knew was that he needed to draw it out before it consumed him. His clenched fingers unfurled to wrap around the base of the elvish cock; lips parted, he dragged his tongue down its length and swallowed him with a hunger betraying all his frustration, and little of his talent. 

Lithe fingers tangled in his hair. Garrosh squeezed closed his eyes, and all he could see were the furrowed brows and curled lip of the human he hated so much. So caught up in his anger, he nearly gagged, but managed to pull his mouth back in time to stop it. His fist pushed the foreskin up over his head. Growling around him, he imagined how Varian would taste, the tremor of his thighs under Garrosh’s grip, that _irritating_ voice and how he would say–

“Garrosh?”

There was a voice, annoyed, slightly strained, but it wasn’t Varian’s. Cock still between his lips, Garrosh shot a glance towards the stairs, only to find Thrall, stiff, scowling, hovering three steps from the floor. He all but spit out the blood elf’s dick. He hated the way Thrall looked at him, even though he _knew_ there was no reason to feel ashamed of what he was doing. Leaping to his feet, he shook the dust from his knees, and took a few stumbling steps towards the banister.

“What, Thrall? What do you want?” He wished his voice had sounded more threatening. Instead, it faltered in the middle: a mere hitch, but enough to undermine his scowl. Fingers that, only moments before, had clutched at a cock, now balled at his side. The audacity of Thrall to come down _here,_ to interrupt him after everything he had already interrupted that day. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to turn back and keep going. Not with the Warchief watching him like this, with the same disapproving eyes, cool as ice, that had stopped him in the parlor, in the bar, and now...

“I am going to our room.” Thrall shifted from one foot to the other. His gaze moved from Garrosh’s face, to the elf, to some point behind the casks. While the move should have been a _relief_ to Garrosh, it only made him feel worse. “I want you to join me.”

“I’m busy.” 

“I can see that.” 

And it could have ended with that; it _should_ have ended with that, when Thrall’s cheeks darkened as he turned away, and Garrosh mustered an actual snarl. But instead their words hung in the air, like the elf lingering in the background with his robes still unbuttoned. 

But the lump that formed in Garrosh’s throat was even heavier than the weight in the pit of his stomach, and he adjusted himself, and drifted behind Thrall like the shadow he often felt himself to be. There was no going back to the fantasy he had created now, not with Thrall’s disapproval burned into his thoughts. All he could to was swallow, and ascend the stairs in silence.

By the time they reached their room, the lanterns had dimmed from violet to a rich grey: just enough light to find their bedmats and cast aside unnecessary pieces of armor. Garrosh pretended to struggle with the clasps of his belt; it gave him an excuse to look away until Thrall tapped the lanterns to ‘off’ and a quiet darkness flooded the air between them. Pulling the pelt up over his head, he squeezed closed his eyes, turning towards the opposite wall and trying to think of _anything_ except the events of the day. He was unsuccessful. There was only Varian’s snarl, and the way Thrall had said his name, shyly, nervously, lingering like an echo in–

–the darkness between their beds. Garrosh’s eyes shot open, realizing Thrall had been speaking to him. He listened, pursing his lips around his tusks, holding a breath behind clenched teeth. 

“You need to use some discretion, Garrosh,” Thrall whispered. He didn’t sound angry; he never did. Only... gravely serious. Unsettled. Nervous enough to make Garrosh’s shoulders tense up to his neck. He clenched his jaw, feeling his ire starting to flare. 

“And exercise self-control. What if someone else had found you down there instead of me?”

“ _What if?_ ” Garrosh growled. His voice swelled like the roar of waves, chasing back the silence with a crash. “No one cares, Thrall. I would have rather seen anyone but you on those stairs. At least someone else wouldn’t make me feel guilty about it.”

Thrall let out a sigh: quiet, but sharp enough to steal the rant from Garrosh’s lips. He yielded to the pause that followed, giving the Warchief space to speak. “This is not about guilt, Garrosh. I don’t want to give the other advisors another reason to dislike you.” 

“They’d dislike me for that? For what, sucking off an elf? Having sex with males?”

“For lacking self-control.” There was a rustle of blankets to Garrosh’s left. It was clear that Thrall was turned on his side to look at him, but even in the dark, he wanted no part in that stare. His cheeks were already warm enough without Thrall studying them. He inhaled, and his shoulders clenched.  
“They say you are too impulsive, and I defend you, reminding them that your father was the same. But after your behavior today I am not sure what I can say in your favor. You cannot rush the Alliance king like that, Garrosh. An all-out war with him now, here, would cost us–”

“Your reputation? Your chances with that witch, Jaina Proudmoore? What is it, Thrall?” He wished his voice hadn’t sounded so desperate, panic all but chasing the words from his mouth, but Thrall had hit a nerve, and he wanted it to stop. Chest rising, he slammed his hand onto the bedmat and let the thud roll beneath his tirade. “What is it? Are you jealous it wasn’t you and her down there? Give it up. Stop wasting time pining after your enemy. The same people who enslaved you, Thrall. The exact same–”

_**“That’s enough, Garrosh.”**_

Thrall’s roar shook the lanterns, making them swing and clatter in the air like one of the earthquakes he often summoned. Garrosh’s fingers clenched around the top of the pelt, balling into fists, shaking with both the rage of his rant and the shock of being cut off. It had worked, but he didn’t feel pleased with himself. Instead, his stomach clenched. His cheeks drained from hot to numb, and his breath stuck in his throat.

And then, there was silence. Long, cold silence: so long, in fact, that Garrosh assumed the conversation was over and tried to sleep. But the quiet was louder than even his yell, and all he could do was shift on the mat, tug at the pelt, and will his breathing to steady. Right now, it had to be loud enough for Thrall to hear. The last thing he needed was a slew of questions about that.

But just when he had given up, Thrall spoke again. It wasn’t the stern growl from before, or even the stiff comments that had started the fight. No. It was soft, shy. But honest, with an air of informality they rarely used since their fight back in Orgrimmar. A whisper: 

“I’ve never done that before.”

“Done what?” Garrosh snapped; he hadn’t meant to sound so annoyed, and immediately regretted it.

“What you were doing in the cellar. With the mage.” It was clear Thrall was choosing his words carefully, pauses marking every statement, words enunciated more than necessary. Rolling onto his side to face him, finally, Garrosh propped himself up on his arm.

“I’ve never done it, or had it done to me.”

“With a male?”

“With anyone.”

“Oh.” Squinting in the darkness, he could make out the outline of Thrall’s body, similarly leaning on his elbow, his gaze fixed on the floor between them. Not sure of the right thing to say, Garrosh went for the first question that came to mind, paying no heed to privacy. After all, Thrall had started it. “Why? You’re good looking enough.”

There was a small noise from across the room: a cough, as if Thrall was trying to clear his throat. “It’s not a matter of–” His voice sounded higher than usual, cutting off almost as soon as it started. There was another pause, and then he spoke again, adding a quiet, simple “It’s not that, but thank you.”

If it wasn’t that, Garrosh wasn’t sure what it was. But something in Thrall’s voice let him know he didn’t want to elaborate, and even he had enough sense not to pursue it. Maybe he had been too busy, or didn’t want it, which was fine. 

But just in case, he offered, in a voice nearly as quiet as Thrall’s: “If you ever want to, I would. I mean, do it to you.” He silently cursed himself for stammering, cringing as the heat returned to his cheeks. It sounded like some kind of charity, which was the last thing Garrosh wanted; he wasn’t in love with Thrall by any stretch, but the idea of sex with him...was nice. He had thought about it more than once, and his pulse quickened even as the words left his mouth. Swallowing, he added, a little louder: “I want to. If you want to.”

He knew Thrall well enough to know that he hadn’t been trying to get that offer, and the sharp intake of breath that followed was more than enough to confirm that. Still, he fell silent, seeming to consider, and Garrosh smiled at him through the shadows. He wanted him to realize that this was okay. That it wasn’t something he had to be ashamed of. That Garrosh wanted him to be happy.

The pelt over Thrall shifted, and then came his answer, short, and barely audible. “...Yes.”

“Okay?” His own voice swelled.

“Okay.”

It was so quiet Garrosh could hear his feet thumping across the floor on his way to the other mat. He took one soft-padded step, then another, stopping, then, slowly, kneeling beside the other orc. One hand went to the pillow next to his face, and he could feel him holding his breath, looking up with eyes that no longer unsettled him. His shoulders tensed. He spread his legs, but Garrosh had no intention of starting yet, with him so anxious. Instead, he rested their foreheads together, and drew in a breath.

In his thoughts, the idea of having sex with the Warchief, with _Thrall,_ had made him nervous, but there was no room for that now. While he had expected him to be critical, now that it was happening it became clear that any hesitance about sex wasn’t coming from condescension. Stroking his hair with the back of his fingers, Garrosh waited, seeing what he would do. Waiting for him to make some kind of move, to let his know this was okay. 

That move finally came after a weighty pause. Thrall leaned upwards, brushing his nose, and their tusks gave a hollow ‘clck’ as they knocked together. Repositioning himself with a tilt of his head, Garrosh let him try again, this time meeting him halfway. Their lips finally touched, then Thrall pulled back, regarding him in the darkness.

Without pause— concerned only about seeing his face, figuring out what he was thinking— Garrosh reached up to tap on one of the lanterns. As soon as his hand brushed metal, however, Thrall’s fingers were at his wrist. He grasped him, not rough, but insistent. He felt the body tense beneath him. It shouldn’t have angered him, but the frustration at having been thwarted when he _just wanted to see if Thrall was okay_ drew a growl from his lips. He pushed back onto his heels.

“Don’t want to see who you’re doing this with, do you?” He all but spat. Why was he always like this with Thrall? He thought he caught a glimmer of eyes searching for his in the shadows, but without the lamp, it was hard to tell.

“Well?” He persisted, his teeth gritting beneath pursed lips. Thrall’s legs shifted, but no answer came, and he forgot they were supposed to be _cooperating._ Cheeks flushed, hand clenching more than necessary in Thrall’s relatively light grip, he grunted, and waited. And when he was almost ready to stomp back to his bedroll–

–“I’m shy.”

It was hard to miss his exasperation, but it was the hitch in his breath, the way his words trailed at the end, that betrayed their truth. The ire burning in Garrosh’s chest dissipated, leaving neither smoke nor embers behind. A flash that died as quickly as it had come. Wasn’t this always how it was with them?

And this...was cute. The begrudging admission came on the heels of a groan, but as soon as he thought it, he couldn’t get it out of his mind. It was true. Thinking about him squirming– probably blushing– beneath him was enough; he didn’t even need the light. Shaking his hand free of the other orc’s grip, he pressed the palm of his hand to his face, nuzzled his nose, and, with a touch so gentle neither could fully believe it was his, slid his fingers to his chin, then his chest, then over his abdomen. He found the front of his pants and gave him a squeeze through the thin leather garment. 

A soft moan escaped Thrall’s lips. Garrosh was pleased to find him already hard, the tent in his pants betraying desires he hadn’t put into words. And with that, all of Garrosh’s apprehension was forgotten. Trailing his fingers from the head– almost poking out over the waistband– down the shaft, then over bulge between his legs, he focused on getting Thrall comfortable. Against his wrist, he felt his thigh starting to relax, and let out a low murmur. 

“Big,” he noted, entirely honest.

“Garrosh–!”

If it was meant to sound like the indignant noise he had made in the basement, it fell short, too broken up by a sigh to come off as resolute. But it seemed to serve its purpose. Once slotted back in their usual roles, Thrall seemed to get a hold of himself. Thighs dropped open. His hip rolled upwards, once– not exactly _needy,_ yet, but at least comfortable– and Garrosh heard his head fall back against the pillow. And that was all the prompting he needed. Lifting up on his knees, he moved between Thrall’s legs, and gave the lacings of his pants a tug.

Even in the dark, he could feel his cock spring free, and his hands were on it, easing it the rest of the way out of his pants, sliding down to the base, then pressing the foreskin up over the head. As much as he wished he could _see_ , the least he could do was get a feel for it. His thumb rubbed against the slit as he slid the foreskin back down. He was surprised to find a piercing there: a small bar with a bead on each end, just below the head. He toyed with it, rubbing his finger against the metal bar and sliding it slightly to the side. This earned him a soft exhale. He leaned forward, replacing finger with tongue, sliding upward until–

“Ah-!” 

It was a pleased sound, but choked, like he caught himself just as the noise left his lips. Which, Garrosh guessed, was exactly what had happened. On the other hand, _he_ had no problem being vocal, which he did, almost as if to coax the Warchief, as his lips wrapped around his head. With a moan, he relaxed his jaw and started to slide down his shaft. His hand rested against Thrall’s leg and stroked the inside of his thigh.

“Okay?” He murmured when he slid back up. 

“Okay.” Thrall repeated, in a voice that revealed how far beyond _okay_ he was feeling. Garrosh grinned. Pleased with himself, he wrapped his other hand around the base of his cock, and swallowed.

It had taken Garrosh some time to admit he enjoyed this kind of activity; back in Garadar, he had denied it to himself, insisting that he would never take pleasure in someone else’s cock between his lips. But coming to Azeroth had given him confidence. He had learned not only to enjoy it, but to take pride in it: the feeling of someone else coming undone beneath him was nearly as satisfying as thrusting into someone else’s mouth. The way he was able to relax– letting his partners fuck the back of his throat, digging their nails into his head and tugging his hair– betrayed the practice he had put into learning his craft. Like a warrior skilled on the battlefield, able to control every movement and reflex after the hours he put into training.

And while Thrall wasn’t exactly thrusting or tugging– the most he got out of him was a light, almost hesitant brush of his fingers against the top of his head– there was satisfaction in that, too. The Warchief was all but unraveled beneath him. His breath trembled. His hand shook as he stroked Garrosh’s shoulder, and when Garrosh pulled back, he could taste him, leaking onto his tongue. 

Licking his slit– rubbing his head against his lower lip and enjoying the taste and smell– he felt his own cock strain against the front of his pants. He reached down and adjusted himself, lingering for a moment, but then returning his attention to Thrall. He could relieve himself when they were done, he promised. If nothing else, he would have the memory of Thrall coming inside his mouth to satisfy him as he pumped himself to sleep. “Tastes good,” he murmured, honest, again, before sliding his lips back down. This time, Thrall didn’t even try to conceal his gasp.

It didn’t take long; Garrosh hadn’t expected it would. Even though he pulled back the first time he felt Thrall’s hips start to tense– choosing instead to slide his tongue down the underside of his shaft, to tease the piercing, to flick the tip against the soft skin of his balls– even that made his back arch from the bedroll. Smug, satisfied, Garrosh returned to sucking. With Thrall’s cock down his throat, he swallowed, slid back up, and grasped firmly at the base to make up for the last few inches he couldn’t take. Thrall’s fingers dug into his shoulder, now, and the others fumbled to grasp at the blanket beside him.

He twitched, and sighed. Garrosh closed his eyes and enjoyed each reaction, the knowledge that he was doing this...to Thrall, to _him,_ after everything that had happened. It felt good. He groaned. And then.

“Garrosh!” 

Thrall was trying to pull him back, but Garrosh resisted. Shaking his hand off his head, he sucked faster, pursing his lips around him. Resting his free hand against his thigh– hoping the touch would communicate what he was unable to say, both because he had never been great with words, and because he was...well, indisposed– he slid down again, one last time, before feeling a burst at the back of his throat. 

Warm liquid filled his mouth: musky, but not unwelcome. He swallowed. Sliding back onto his heels, he gave his head one last flick with his tongue, and looked up at him in the darkness. 

Even in the shadows, he could make out the rise and fall of his chest. The way he stared up at the ceiling as he fought for breath, hands now clenched at his sides, thighs shuddering as they tried to take in what had happened. A pause set in, punctuated by a sigh, then a cough. Garrosh waited. Thrall finally whispered:

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” 

There was another pause before Thrall responded. Taking a chance, Garrosh crawled up to recline beside him, tucking back the Warchief’s hair behind his ear to make room on the pillow. With that, Thrall mumbled, “For finishing in your mouth.”

“I wanted you to.” Hadn’t he been clear enough? “I like it.”

“Oh.”

Another pause.

“All right. Good.”

Garrosh nodded, and, leaning in to nuzzle his cheek one last time, was about to say good night and return to his side of the room. But then Thrall turned; their noses bumped, then their tusks, then their lips all but crushed against one another. So surprised by the movement, Garrosh fell back against the pillow, allowing Thrall to take the lead. The Warchief’s palm pressed against his face, and his lips parted, tongue seeking out Garrosh’s. His chest was still heaving when it pressed down against him, and his hand– the same hand that had shook only moments before– cupped the side of his neck. So surprised, Garrosh gasped. Thrall didn’t pull away.

It seemed that he wasn’t the only one who had an easier time showing than talking, Garrosh thought to himself. There was no hesitation or shame in the Warchief’s kiss. It was warm, still clumsy, but passionate. He even caught Garrosh’s lower lip between his teeth and gave it a playful tug. And Garrosh yielded, hardly able to believe this was happening, let alone expect it to go further. After all, this was _Thrall._ This was–

And then his hand pressed against the front of Garrosh’s pants. At that, he tensed, getting a hold of himself enough to pull away from the kiss. Searching out the Warchief’s eyes, he stared, tried to process, then finally, more reluctant than he cared to admit, found himself mumbling.

“You don’t have to.” He hadn’t gone into this expecting reciprocation; he wanted Thrall to know that. But his hand was still groping at him through his pants, trying to cup him, to undo the lacings, and Garrosh couldn’t find it in himself to jerk away. He wanted this. It was hard to admit, but he did. And Thrall seemed so intent on going through with it, he couldn’t just–

“Here.” He murmured, nudging Thrall off of him so he could return to lying on his side. It would be easier for him to reach him this way, and it gave Garrosh room to relax. His own hand slid down to cup Thrall’s. Their fingers laced together for a moment, then he went to lace his pants, easing out his cock, and offering it to Thrall. The cool air on his skin was a welcome touch, and Thrall’s fingers...he found himself growling in spite of himself.

Tucking his face against the Warchief’s neck, he shuddered, then nipped at his skin. Kissing and nuzzling, he wanted him to feel the appreciation welling in his chest. In the morning, they would likely pretend this didn’t happen. They would probably wake, eat in silence, and spend another day snapping and glaring at one another from across the Order of Battle.

But for now– with his face buried against Thrall’s neck, his hand seeking out his cheek as he rocked into his palm, barely able to make out one another’s eyes in the darkness– he wanted him to know how he felt. Proud. Wanted. Desired.

It was a good feeling.

With a sigh, Garrosh relaxed, and came undone.


End file.
